


Asterismos

by orphan_account



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Epsilon never reacts and Wash doesn’t know if it’s because the AI knows he won’t leave or if it just doesn’t care anymore."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! This is an AU I've been wanting to write for awhile. A world where Epsilon was never removed from Wash's mind. It'll be ongoing, hopefully.
> 
> The psychological torture tag is for references to canon and descriptions of it, not anything that's going to happen.
> 
> The title means "marking with the stars"; a word that gives weight or draws attention to the words that follow.

When he opens his eyes, he sees a cake. Chocolate, slathered with frosting so white that it hurts to look at, topped with cherries so vibrant that his first thought is that they must be fake. Nothing so beautiful could exist in the recently updated-to-an-unstable-Beta patch of Agent Washington’s life.

He knows that when he reaches out to pick up the fork next to the cake, he’ll lose it.

But that doesn’t happen. Instead, the smoke in his head shifts, pale and cloudy at the edges and a sharp blue at the center. And he blinks. He can see through his visor because half of it is missing, revealing that the cake is gone. It’s replacement is the mud he’s currently occupying. The icing is literal, even if this isn’t Sidewinder. He’s not surprised that the cherries were fake; his own blood, coughed out when he landed. Decorating the landscape for his arrival, or some other poetic bullshit. Trying to lift himself up is a bad idea, and as his head hits the ground for a second time the smoke rears back. It grabs his brain like a vice and shakes it, like it’s trying to wrench all the remaining life out of Wash’s head and into his body.

“Stop, I’m—it’ll be fine, just… _stop_ ,” a panicking AI doesn’t know how to help, how to survive. By now, Epsilon has shed almost everything but the basics. The only reason Wash is still having problems is because _Wash_ can’t purge the horrors from his own head the same way Epsilon can. The AI is tripping over the wires left sparking from its own explosion. Apart from trying to calm it down, Wash can’t do anything. “Stop, stop… just…”

What’s the word he needs? Being face down in the mud doesn’t make for a good time to search his vocabulary. “Just rest. I’ll get us out of here.”

It’s easy to say, but Wash is pretty sure the AI knows before he does that he’s bullshitting. Maybe the AI remembers how to take pity on someone, because it’s pulling back and letting go of his mind, curling up in a corner that isn’t as torn apart as the rest. Wash wants to retreat with Epsilon too, but pushes himself up one more time. On his feet he wobbles once, twice, then steadies. When he feels around his helmet, he finds it’s cracked; a large piece wrenched out where a sniper had marked him during the escape. The bullet took out his visor and punched its way through the metal.

It grazed his head and he hasn’t looked. The bullet is still embedded in the cockpit wall.

There’s something about the phrase ‘punched its way through the metal’ that Wash likes. He pictures an armoured fist lifting back as he catches himself thinking of _who_ it was as Epsilon begins to move around again. But why her? He didn’t know her well—and then he realises it’s not because he knew her.

“Shit,” he says, falling back against the shuttle. “I can’t even tell which are mine.”

 

* * *

 

It’s two days later and Wash is forced to move. Angry static from the console rouses him from his half-sleep, half-death state and he groans when he picks up the bag he had fought to escape with. He didn’t expect to be shot in the head with a dying AI when he packed it; he’s patting himself on the back for the accidental foresight now.

The radio is spitting out bits of conversation and no matter how much Wash fiddles with it, the voices don’t clear up. He only catches one solid sentence.

_“Agent Texas continues to evade the authorities.”_

He tries to ignore the sudden pressure of Epsilon waking up at the mention of Texas. Wash has learned many things quickly in their short time together, chiefly to avoid thinking about her. Avoid thinking about avoiding the subject of Agent Texas, too. There are brief memories that he’s determined are Epsilon’s and he’s put together that Texas is an _Epsilon_ memory, not a Washington memory. A memory powerful enough to draw out reactions in a broken computer program.

The closest Wash gets to thinking about Texas is wondering why they’re not looking for him. He heard other Freelancers mentioned; York, North, South, Maine. Something about one of them KIA. Texas is mentioned a lot after the first name drop.

But not Washington.

He decides it’s lucky they don’t think he’s worth chasing. He was never at the top of the leaderboard. Unlike the others, the only thing he has that the project would want is resting in his head.

He thinks about ditching Epsilon.

 

  
Epsilon never reacts and Wash doesn’t know if it’s because the AI knows he won’t leave or if it just doesn’t care anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

Skernia is the only city within walking distance. Wash isn’t sure how he survived it carrying a duffel bag full ofweapons and rations. Epsilon is no help, but only hinders Wash twice so he considers it a win even when he’s puking through the broken remains of his helmet. 

Luckily for him, Skernian authorities are used to soldiers in UNSC armour wandering in carrying guns and bleeding from the head, so they give him no trouble. Wash thinks they should and for a moment it feels like Epsilon agrees. When he reaches out for the AI he’s met with static; it’s what he thinks means Epsilon is asleep.

The other Freelancers said their AI kept them up at night, they rarely talked about them asleep. Wash is thankful that Epsilon spends most of the time in a near comatose state, considering how violent their minds react to one another.

He’s not sure why he doesn’t pull him.

The hotels in Skernia aren’t as easy as the guards. Wash has to drag his beaten body to three different ones before a receptionist lets him into a room. _They’re probably afraid I’ll die at the desk_ , he thinks. It’s a distinct possibility.

Peeling off his armour proves to be the most difficult task since basic training. The escape, the crash, days of walking, all of it has sewn the metal and fabric of Wash’s armour into his skin. When he places his gloves beside him on the bed, one of them falls off and he only gets halfway to picking it up before giving up. His boots and chest piece join the floored glove to create a black and brown pile. 

Brown? Wash has to squint down at the pile with blurred vision as he tries to understand what he’s seeing. For some reason, his mind is missing the link between “This is wrong” and “is what it should be” and he ends up swaying on his feet. 

** It’s your blood. **

_ Thank you, weird voice in my head _ , Wash thinks back to it. And then the absurdity hits and he laughs once, quiet and hoarse. Epsilon is gone almost as quickly as it came. Maybe the protocols for helping out its incoherent Freelancer are still working.

Wash is working the bodysuit away from his skin when time stops. The room, heater turned up, is suddenly cold. A knock at the door, and Agent Fucking Washington is shaking in his… barefeet. With cold clarity, Wash removes a pistol from his bag and pulls the door open enough to see who it is.

One hour and a clean pile of clothing later, Wash is in the shower. This isn’t the first time a bloodied man has stayed overnight, and ‘left’ their clothing behind. Wash doesn’t question it, and thanks the employee sent up with the basket. A shirt that’s mostly-white-but-that’s-definitely-not-an-old-bloodstain is waiting for him on the back of the toilet, beneath a fluffy white towel (without anything that could be a bloodstain). The towel looks like all of Wash’s hopes and dreams wrapped up in sugary clouds.

He places a gun on top of the towel to remind himself that those dreams don’t exist anymore.

 

* * *

 

The water is still muddy red when Wash gets out, but it’s the best he can do with a head wound and hotel soap. He’s in front of the mirror with a towel around his waist and nothing about what he sees is familiar. His body had a few scars from war, but most of them were from his childhood. Knees and elbows that are messed up from skateboard falls. A few small cuts from where he fell up the stairs trying to get in the house quickly enough to watch cartoons. For every bullet hole there were five long scratches just from being a _kid_. 

When he looked at his face, all the scars from being young didn’t even register. There was nothing young left in him. 

The shot to his head had finally stopped bleeding, three towels later. It had ripped out a good part of the side hair, and Wash starts to think that no amount of shampoo will get the blood stains out. He gives up trying and rips a towel into strips before wrapping it. He makes sure to cover the new AI port in the back of his head, lest it gather unwanted attention. The look is completed by a black hoodie he finds in the basket, which he pulls taut over his head when he lays down.

Epsilon has been trying to stay quiet, and Wash is grateful. It seems the AI finally realises that they both suffer when it tries to expand. While he could really use the sensors and advice an AI can give, he prefers the lack of mind implosions.

When he lays down to sleep he turns the television on to a Grifball match and keeps the gun in his hand, hidden under the pillow. He dreams about a woman he barely knew—one that he knows now isn’t what he thought. He dreams multiple scenarios where they’re paired together on a mission, where they die every time.

He’s afraid to wake up. He doesn’t want Epsilon to lose control again. But when he opens his eyes, he’s comforted by the sunlight and the quiet in his mind for the first time in days.


End file.
